S University 2012
by TheOtherSoup
Summary: "Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing." — Benjamin Franklin. Thanks, buddy. I hope to accomplish both by taking PTB's workshop. Stand-alone one shots. Various pairings. Not beta'd.
1. PreAssignment — Diary of a Prude

I do not own _Twilight_.  
I also seem incapable of writing PWP.  
—

**Project Team Beta's Smut University 2012  
Pre-Assignment  
**Write some smut.

_*For my classmates and all those who are as terrified as I am when it comes to writing lemons (and simply posting, in general).*_

— _**Diary of a Prude**__ —  
_

* * *

A continuous _smack, smack, smack_ reverberates throughout my apartment—fast, steady, deliberate. The sound matches the thumping of my heart, the pounding in my ears, my quick, sharp intakes of breath. It echoes within the walls of the studio space thinly chambered off into four sections: the living room to my right, my bedroom on a raised dais to my left, the dining-slash-office in between, and the kitchen I'm standing in that spans the length of the main floor. The wide, open space no longer feels large and airy as the walls contract like my chest and belly. The tapping of my three-inch heels only adds to the cacophony.

I still and gaze down at the business card in my hand, which began to sound more like a ticking bomb than stiff paper incessantly smacking against my palm.

_**Smut University  
**E.A.M. Cullen  
(608) 555 – 7688_

Dark red print on stark white, the words are simple but heavy, _scary_. As a writer, I am ashamed of that fact. Words are my life. They are my closest friends, the best extension of me. My greatest tools, which I have worked hard to sharpen and perfect in their strung-together lines and that I am proud to have bounded, they also bring my paycheck. The result is comfort and security, but most importantly, writing holds my dreams and adventures, all with a small sense of anonymity, a non-confrontational facelessness to expression. It is therapy and confession—not an escape, but a real and humbling pleasure.

I have never hated or been so afraid of words in my life. One is more terrifying than the rest: _Smut._

The smacking and tapping—ticking and tocking—resume, picking up speed with the double-time glugs of my heart. I need to make a choice. The time to withdraw is running out. All it would take is one phone call, and I have ten minutes to make it. Pick up the phone and say goodbye to the unknown and my pride; it should be easy. Or, I can walk out the door, wave farewell to ignorance and hello to the experiences and confidence I need to help transform words.

With a frustrated cry, I throw the card on the long butcher-block island in front of me, slapping my hands atop the counter as I glare. I am no coward, no quitter. The precise and prideful sort, I have skydived to know the pull of gravity, even though heights were—still are—my greatest fear. I have alpine climbed to thoroughly understand the sport and live its dangers, have backpacked through Europe with little money, camped in a desert during a sandstorm, and lived in numerous countries to know the feel and the ins and outs of each, firsthand. I have even tried the Filipino delicacy _balut_, a fertilized duck embryo, to describe the taste and texture of gooey feathers and a beak with disgusting accuracy, for God's sake! No, for research and writing materials' sake!

I can certainly have meaningless sex with a stranger (and hopefully have an orgasm or two) for the same reason, right?

I grit my teeth, knowing the answer but still torn. An author doesn't need experience to write about any subject, and I'll be setting a bad example for young aspiring authors by acting otherwise, particularly when it comes to the matters of sex. But I don't need to tell my teenage writing group what I'm doing, and I'm almost 30 years old. I'm an adult and can make the choice that involves very little recklessness because I have Smut U, a professional, summer-long course of sex.

Exclusive and highly selective, the class requires various tests and full disclosure in the application process. I've endured physical exams, interviews, and background checks, even a private investigator tailing me to observe my lifestyle and daily routines. It is to ensure that I am healthy and disease-free, to judge my character and emotional and psychological stability, and to put credence to how badly I want to attend and power behind my oath to stay faithful to the students and instructors in _every_ manner. _Safety for the students, professors, and the course itself is of the utmost importance_, they've told us, _along with discretion._

Word of mouth is the course's only advertising. How Alice got the card, and from whom, I'll never know. The why, I never _want_ to know. We're not supposed to ask or tell anyone, anyway—not a word of who, what, where, when, and how. It is an aspect that I'm grateful for and became a pro in my versus list on whether to apply or not. The cons side, I am ashamed to admit, was small—for my intentions, at least—and there were no other appealing and viable options. Sex with just anybody, without security and guarantees … no, thanks. I don't have the patience or the time. The first draft of my attempt to step out of YA is startlingly blank and due in three months. I can't fail, not without trying first.

My antique Bahnhäusle, an intricate cuckoo clock from my trip to the Black Forest in Germany, chimes twice—the original design oddly not having birds or the cuckoo mechanism. Time has run out. No matter how chicken or cuckoo I am, I can't back out now.

My shoulders droop. _I am so screwed. At least, I will be tonight._

I grimace at the unintentional pun, the worst kind because it wasn't made with careful purpose like any good author would do. Or maybe it just shows my natural brilliance.

I snort. _Right, Bella._

Trying to calm down, I take a deep breath and straighten, running my sweaty palms on the invisible wrinkles of my grey pencil skirt. Alice said to dress up, warning me that my usual work attire of pajamas would only send the wrong message and limit my choice in candidates—if I decide to go, that is. Two sharp exhales stop the thought of who they could be, of what that would mean and what I would gain—like an orgasm I've never had and need to know, for example.

The ridiculous thought is enough to drive me.

With a resolute nod, I snatch my keys and purse, before shooting one more glare at the card and stomping away. Curse Alice for giving it to me six weeks ago. Damn the obsessive-compulsive part of me that whispers _must, must, must_ because I'm dying to learn and know and get it right, that perfectionist, over-achieving, critical side of me that won't rest until I'm satisfied with the printed orderly lines, given to best of my ability. It's a sickness, really, made worse by fear.

And have I mentioned that I'm terrified? My knees shake as I lock my door, walk down the hall, and ride the elevator down to the garage. I wrestle with my car door, fumble to fasten my seatbelt, put the keys in the ignition and the car in reverse, and clumsily steer. I run the first stop sign out of my warehouse district turned trendy condo neighborhood, hyperventilate the entire fifteen-minute drive, and park crookedly in front of a clothing boutique, which is a block from the private art gallery where everyone will meet before receiving the first assignments.

I'm not brave enough to park there, not wanting to see who walks through those glass doors, though I know there are empty spaces that I could.

I find myself glancing anyway, only to quickly look away. A flash of wild hair, the color of deep amber—like rich Auchentoshan Three Wood Single Malt Scotch seen from the bottom of a glass as it embodies light—hurriedly ascended the steps before tinted windows swallowed it. My mouth goes dry. My heart speeds up. My eyes fall on the clock on my dash. I curse, realizing that I'm fifteen minutes early, and grip the steering wheel.

_It's okay. Breathe. It's good._

I need the time to relax and prepare, to stop shaking and get a damn grip that doesn't involve my car or any other inanimate object.

But so much time is also bad. I can't help but rethink what I'm about to do as I smooth down my sleek, high ponytail and check my teeth.

_Great sex._ I've had mediocre, at best. Even then, it was only twice; my first when I was 21, and the second … well, let's just say it's in my top five list of the worst things I've ever done and tried, right up there with _balut_.

Is the supposedly wonderful, shuddering Great Release worth the stress, discomfort, and possible humiliation, as well as thousands of dollars, all for the sake of _knowing_? The feel of someone slowly sliding in, stretching, accommodating; hard, deep thrusts that one has to hold on to _something_ because he/she can't hold, _contain_, what's coiling and growing inside of him/her—I've never experienced the latter, have only read about it, and I can't recall the former. It's been that long.

More than three years and, while I've had urges, I have never _craved_ sex. A warm body next to me, and to be touched? Sure. Someone to fulfill my few and far between fantasies and give me momentary release? Eh, not so much.

Maybe it's because I can't miss what I've never had. Maybe there's something wrong with me, or it's just not in the cards. Maybe it's like Rosalie said: I'm a prude, worried of what the man will think, afraid of being selfish and taking what I want and of not being in control—afraid that I might actually enjoy it.

Assuming I'm scared to experience it, how scared will I be when I try to write it? How accurate will the emotion, positions, and actions be if I can't remember? If I don't know? I've done topical research and read countless books containing all types of smut, but I don't_ know_. Doubt is a writer's worst enemy. I can't worry and second guess myself because there's enough doubt and fear with anything one writes. I don't need more.

Rosalie has said that I don't have the guts to follow through, that I may seem adventurous, but I'm really not. Everything I've done was for research; if I didn't have that, I wouldn't have given any of it a thought. And while I have the same reasons to explore amazing sex, I won't attend the course's introductory meeting, let alone stay overnight at hotel with a complete stranger. My sexual history is evidence enough, and supposedly, according to Rosalie the Psychologist, not only has my horrible sexual experiences made me wary of the deed, but I also don't allow myself (and others) to get too close, too personal and attached. Meaningless sex undoubtedly can lead—and has led—to more, especially for women. And for me, it would mean certain death. Suicide.

Well, I'll show her and her dramatic reverse psychology, and once again, I'll be grateful for it.

Hopefully.

**= IVI =**

I am not grateful. Not for Rosalie and her reverse psychology, or for my itch that's begging to be scratched, screaming _must, must, must_ in harmony with _know, know, know_ and _to get it right, right, right_, though the latter has led me and my three-book series on the _USA Today_ and internationalBest Seller lists. Neither am I laughing and having a surprisingly good time like I was at the meeting.

I am a quivering mess, regretting my choice for my first Smut U assignment as I ride the Trump International Hotel and Tower elevator with the bellhop, James.

It doesn't help that he's eying me with unhidden interest and trying to strike up a conversation, and that I think the front desk knows why I'm here. The fact they were told to expect me, specifically, and knew who I was without an introduction, is enough to make anyone uneasy. But Afton's knowing and personally pleased smile, as well as his ominous yet reverent "You'll see" reply to my question of who told them to expect me, can make the most trusting person suspicious.

And, really, one would be nervous about masturbation.

Just the thought of seeing it, doing it, is nerve-wracking. To be instructed and _watched_, during what is supposed to be a solitary act, when I've always been uncomfortable with simply _trying_ it, _alone _… well, no one can blame me for shaking.

I don't know what caused me to slip _that _assignment card into the bowl, like some secret tithe or prayer to a sex god completely unknown to me and absent in my life. The Bloody Mary I had on impulse might have helped, as it made me brave. Mike, a fellow student and new acquaintance, with his hilarious commentary on the phallus sculptures, offered a distraction and much needed relief in an otherwise stifling, awkward room, delaying me from leaving. His "nothing ventured, nothing gained" comment before he gave his own tithing assignment card also hit home.

It didn't hurt that many of the instructors were attractive, either. The Smut U Dean, Edward Cullen (Mr. Three Wood Single Malt Scotch), can certainly make any woman optimistic and willing. Why, with his smooth, cajoling voice, those warm emerald eyes that can be alight with teasing laughter or darkly seductive in a moment's turn, and a dominating presence belied by an adorably lopsided, self-deprecating smile, the man can tempt a nun into giving up chastity and God for the unknown smutty one.

No. Undoubtedly, I made the choice because I didn't know it would be my first lesson, the directions in our small, personal leather binders simply stating to pick one sexual act we've been too scared to try—though I have tried, and with nothing but a shudder and frustrated groan as the result.

It was only after returning home and receiving a phone call did each student learn the specifics of what, where, and when.

Not a damn word on whom.

One only needs an imagination on the how.

Which mine has led me to be twenty minutes late, as I had another internal debate while my imagination went wild on what could go wrong with the lesson—and with my book, if I don't come tonight and my imagination isn't accurate, despite what the reviewers, fans, and books sales say on the matter of my imagination.

I stifle a groan. _I'm thinking in repetitive circles again._

But, at least James has stopped talking.

With a start, I realize why. He's holding the elevator doors open, an expectant yet concerned look on his face. I glance up for the floor number, and blink. 86th floor.

"But—but I thought …" I thought the hotel rooms were below the _28__th_ floor.

"Mr.—"

My gaze flies to James; I'm eager to know whom, for him to finish that sentence.

He coughs, catching himself. "You're on the right floor. It's the residence on the left."

_Residence?_ I shift a little further into the elevator. No one said anything about a residence. What happened to discretion?

Impatient, and with no small amount of pity, James holds out my overnight bag.

I don't take it.

Sighing, he drops it where he stands right outside the elevator and looks at me. "This is where I leave you."

Still, I don't move.

"All right." He steps back inside, leaving my bag where it is on the glossy white tile. With a finger hovering near the third floor button, he raises a brow.

I stare at him blankly.

He presses the button.

"Okay! Okay." I step out and shoulder my bag. The elevator dings, the doors close behind me, and it's gone. I didn't miss James' grin, though; neither did he escape my glare.

After taking a deep breath, then another, and one more for good measure, I turn.

And stop. Stop moving and breathing.

Leaning against the doorjamb, in a black t-shirt and charcoal grey pajama bottoms, is my first instructor—Caius Volturi—eating a bowl of what looks like French vanilla ice cream.

Similar to the disparity in his name and how he actually looks—the difference between a haughty, classical Roman aristocrat that a person anticipates upon hearing his name and the brooding, lean gladiator one actually sees—his current demeanor contradicts my first impression of him from the meeting. Instead of stiff and intimidating, he is a surprising picture of comfortable male nonchalance. Broad shoulders relaxed, torso and narrow hips against the jamb, barefoot, and an ankle crossed over the other, he balances a crystal bowl in a large hand that is as pale yellow as the ice cream.

His slate-grey eyes locked on my own brown, he doesn't move, except to scoop a spoonful and bring it to his mouth, casually, languidly. His straight, dandelion-white hair—that would look ridiculous on anyone else, but only enhances the strong angle of his jaw and adds an otherworldly quality to him as a whole—still staggers me. Though seemingly colorless, the strands glow, like strands of the blinding desert sun.

His grey irises are even more striking, like storms clouds trapping lightning. His expression reveals nothing about him or what he's thinking, and yet those eyes seem to say everything about me, as if they know all my secrets and the beholder can expose them one by one.

The prospect should scare me, and it does. Yet I can do nothing but stand there and stare, and not even that moves. I can see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows, the sliver of skin peeking above a dark waistband with every raise of his arm, the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest, but it's all on the edges of my shrinking vision. I can't focus on anything other than the cool eyes that won't release me.

He just continues to eat, scooping again and again, deeper, more. The silence grows heavier, the foyer smaller, his gaze more intent. And oddly, I am transfixed, letting him dig.

Finished, he sets the spoon in the empty bowl and licks his lips. I shift and lick mine.

Curiosity flashes across his face, before vanishing. He tilts his head to the side ever so slowly, the ends of his hair barely brushing his shoulder before he stops. Bringing his bottom lip between his teeth, he bites down and scrapes across it with deliberate, tempting slowness.

I resist the urge to the same. He's watching me, testing me, waiting for me to react. His slow, tiny smirk tells me he knows I've realized it, too.

Suddenly, I know—_I know_ I'll get what I came for tonight, but won't be getting off easy.

My body begins to tremble. Short bursts of breath ricochet, puncturing silence. A knot forms in my throat, in my chest, moving lower. Panic is setting in, but so is anticipation. I should run; a voice inside me says that, while I won't regret it, I won't be the same after this experience.

I ignore it and squeeze my bag, hard. My elbows press into my sides, holding me together and keeping me steady. I raise my chin and then a brow.

Wordlessly, he pushes off the wall and reaches me in three strides. I don't know how I thought, for one moment, that he isn't intimidating. He towers over me by almost a foot. Even with an arm's length of distance between us, I have to tilt my head back to look at him and he _crowds_. Two feet feels like mere inches, and as his gaze becomes more heated—or maybe, that's just me overheating—it feels even less.

I wish he would say something, that his mouth—full, a little pouty, and much too perfect for a man—would move and give me some direction, invite me inside, smile and break the tension, _something_. It doesn't. He doesn't. He simply slides closer and reaches out. Somehow, without touching me or moving his eyes, he slips his hand beneath the straps of my bag at my shoulder and eases it down my arm, taking it from me.

Then, he leans in and whispers, "I'd say 'Come with me,' but I do hate it when a Romance author writes that, much less hear it said aloud."

I laugh, so caught off guard and because I couldn't agree more. Who comes on command? Is it even possible? Considering the circumstances, his words are funny and apt, a perfect opening. The man continues to surprise me. The trace of a light Greek accent is also unexpected.

He smiles and gestures to his door. "Come inside. Wait. That sounds dirtily accurate, too, doesn't it?"

Leading the way, I chuckle and grin. "No. Cocky, and not happening."

He laughs. Free and deep, the sound ripples across skin like water. "Oh, I should have known better than to play on words with an author."

I only hum in reply. He knows who I am—at least, what I do—and I'm not exactly comfortable with it. Passing the threshold, I stop and wrap my arms around me, my nerves returning. The foyer is dimly lit. What I can see of his living room on the other end is, as well. The brilliant city lights beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows offer a startlingly beautiful view, but not a relaxing or distracting one.

I turn to look at him as he shuts the door behind him with a foot. He sees my expression, and his smile falls, face hardening.

"Relax. Make yourself at home. Take a look around. Go and freshen up. Whatever you need to do to get comfortable." He lifts the bowl. "I'm going to put this away."

I swallow and nod, but my feet don't move.

Those grey eyes, searching my own, are dangerously knowing. "You can always leave, Isabella." Kind words, dark tone. It hints at a challenge, disapproving disbelief, a condescension meant to provoke.

_And by God, it's working._

I glare. He raises his chin and smiles.

Turning, I walk briskly to his living room and mentally add _'haughty' _back on his list of traits with_ 'intimidating,'_ as well as _'surprising,' 'witty,' 'annoyingly perceptive,' 'maddeningly mercurial, maybe purposely so,' 'wicked smile,' _and … I halt, taking in the extremely large but cozy living room.

_And 'good taste, on top of common sense.'_

Clean, contemporary lines blend with soft, romantic curves. Dark wood furniture with creamy white upholstery mix with hand-painted muted grey, weathered sepia, and oxidized-copper green pieces. Throws and fluffy pillows, potted ferns and fresh flowers are interspersed among them. Mirrors, paintings, and charcoal sketches share space with framed hand-drawn architecture outlines, family photographs, and children's finger paintings. Filled bookcases line the walls, and one section in the corner houses a neatly stacked library of board games, while another holds countless sleeves of old records.

The smell of coffee beans permeates the air, and the fireplace lit on my left adds warmth to a stylish yet inviting room. It's eclectic, well done and clean, but obviously used and lived in, too.

It's not at all what I expected. Strictly bachelor-esque, perhaps, or uncomfortably snooty considering it's a Trump Tower residence, but definitely not _Renovation Style_ magazine with a strong personal touch of family.

Caius comes up beside me and places my bag on a wingback chair. Feeling thrown off balance, more so than I already was, I don't look at him, and pointedly ignore the setup in front of fireplace, as well. My eyes land on a photograph of him and Edward Cullen, both in their mid-twenties, grinning from ear to ear, and each with an arm around a beautifully happy, dark-haired girl in Northwestern purple regalia. I know because I had once worn the same at my graduation.

Caius answers my unspoken question. "My sister—well, adoptive sister—and cousin Didyme, who is Edward's sister by blood, which also makes him my cousin and adoptive brother." He laughs. "Though, we normally drop the cousin and adoptive part to avoid having to tell the entire story and family history, as interesting as both may be."

No doubt the story is interesting, and the affection in his tone is so strong, there's also no doubt they're all close, even with the adoptive adjective. My heart warms and causes me to ask the question I've been dying to ask, though more sharply than I intend.

"What am I doing here?"

He smiles genially, too genially. "You tell me."

"You know what I mean," I snap, scowling. His return scowl, even if mockingly done, makes me sorry to ever see it and rethink my tone.

"I mean, I thought no one met at their own homes for safety and discretion, to avoid awkward situations and the possible student stalker. So what am I doing here, _in your condo_?" I gesture to the intimate setup in front of fireplace, with the blown-out candles grouped on any available flat surface surrounding the carefully lain out blankets and pillows. "You were obviously expecting me, and I'm sorry I'm late, as well as grateful that you haven't thrown it in my face. But why here, and not a hotel room?"

He places the bowl on an end table as placidly as he answers. "Effect."

I frown. _What does that mean?_

Before I can ask, he turns to me, crosses his arms—all joking and kindness aside—and asks a question of his own. "Are you finished? I thought you would last longer, at least up until we've sat down for a minute or two. But you've talked yourself out of staying already, haven't you?"

"What? No!"

"Good." He reaches behind his neck, pulling his shirt over by the back collar.

I swallow and shift, flustered, but not enough to look away. He's more defined than I originally thought, and the sprinkle of hair on his toned chest, under his bulging arms, and the trail beneath his taut belly button are more golden than the platinum white-blond on his head, though he's all dusky orange and gold in the firelight and seeming to get darker the farther down.

My eyes narrow. _I wonder ..._

The thought goes unfinished. He shakes out his head of fine hair and stalks toward me, dropping the shirt to the side.

I back away. "What are you doing?" My face heats. A grown woman, I sure as hell know what he's doing.

"Getting started. Not giving you the opportunity to think. Stripping. Pick whatever verb you like." He thumbs the waistband of his pants and pushes down. This time, I look away and have to bite back a moan.

_I love boxer briefs, especially the white, ribbed ones. How's that for a verb?_

"I'm glad you like them, and that's a very good verb," he says, and my eyes bulge as I choke, now aware that I did say my thoughts aloud. It's a recurring problem of mine, like my meeps when I type.

"Although," he continues, "I'm surprised you used the word 'love' for these. I figured they'd scare you and that you'd have a hard time with the action, passive or active."

I gasp, my gaze snapping back to his. "Hey! What does that mean?"

He nods thoughtfully, ignoring me and tucking his hair behind his ears. "I should probably get rid of them. Don't want you give another reason to leave, just in case you are scared."

Glowering, I try to keep my eyes trained above his neck as I shuffle backward and, not even bending, he drops the now offensive piece of clothing, stepping out of them.

_Oh God, it's …_

"Oh, watch out," he warns, pointing over my shoulder. "There's a large column in fron—I mean, behind you."

I snort at his intentional slip, as tactless—though accurate—as it is, and if only to stop my startled, anxious laugh when the hard structure hits my back. I don't move, however, trying to hide how nervous (and intrigued) I am by the one in front of me as well, jutting out—thick, hard, and heavy—between his legs and moving with each stride.

I mentally tack on my confirmation. _Two shades darker, if that, and as neatly trimmed as the rest of him._

As he comes to stand in front of me, I want to tell him to stop, to stop moving and playing games and looking at me as if he's stripping me with his eyes. I'm fond of word games and puzzles, but not so much of the fore- and word-play. I want to tell him that he wins. I don't know if I can do this, and I don't know why I'm so scared. As I go over his previous words and observations, I want to tell him to go fuck himself. How's that for a verb, a dirtily accurate one considering the lesson?

But nothing goes said. I'm better with words on paper and keeping my wants—though not thoughts—to myself.

By now, I shouldn't be surprised, but I am. He bends down, trying to catch my eye as he asks, in a tone so low and soft that I have to strain to hear him, "Are you all right?"

My shoulders sag. I tilt my head back. His eyes are liquid grey, concerned and searching as they implore. For an answer? To continue? Both? I don't know. That's just it—I don't know. I don't know whether to stay or leave, what to do with my book, when it comes to sex and how to enjoy it. My emotions are swirling, but my mind is … undecided, blank—and has been for months.

With his dipped down, I notice his hair escaped his ears and has curtained forward. I reach up to touch the ends.

"Not only dandelion-white, it's dandelion-soft, too. Now I know."

His boyish grin tells me I did say that aloud, but he mercifully doesn't comment or laugh. He simply waits, patient and silent, careful not to touch me as he keeps his eyes trained on mine. The intensity's there, but they're not coaxing. It's while he lets me feel his hair, even moving his head so the strands swoosh between my fingers, and we smile stupidly at each other that I know my answer.

"I'm fine." I clear my throat, before repeating, louder, "I'm fine. Just … just no more games." I scoff, feeling ridiculous for saying it, and at my age.

He holds no judgment, though, as he nods and agrees. "No games."

I sigh and drop my hand, trying to relax as he peels one side of my favorite, most comfortable boyfriend cardigan sweater off my shoulder. I shake my head at the mouthful of a description—and to rid the insecurity of being seen naked—as he eases down the other side. Again, he doesn't touch me, and I'm about to ask why, but he speaks.

"Rule number one …"

I gape, and then hiss. "No games!"

He shakes his head and pulls on my sweater. "It's not a game."

I shift so the sweater falls from my back. "It sure sounds like a game. Only games have rules."

"Isabella—"

"Well, I guess that's not true. Schools have rules, too. So does writing."

"Stop talking," he snaps.

I can't help but laugh. He's suddenly so serious, and it's like being seduced by a spider as he tries to tug down my yoga pants without touching me.

"Rule number one," he repeats, still trying to shimmy the tight fabric from my hips with just the pinch of his fingertips. "You keep your eyes on me the entire time."

Rolling my eyes, I grab my pants and shove them off, kicking them aside. "Okay, I'll play along. Eyes on you the entire time. Got it."

His hair blocks the light, and flickering shadows hide his face, but I think he's looking at my tank top. Chuckling and figuring, _Might as well, _I yank it off. Air hits my chest, so does comprehension, and I stop laughing, my top already slipping to the floor.

"You …" I wrap my arms around me.

"Don't."

My arms tighten. "You tricked me." A childish statement if there ever is one, and I _can_ marvel at how he accomplished to get me to undress, but I feel duped and too exposed, even in underwear and a bra.

"No, I distracted you."

Calloused fingers brush the line of my jaw, pulling me and all thought to a stop before I can retrieve my clothes. Awareness buzzes through my body, joining shame. I expect him to bring my chin up; isn't that what always happens?

But he doesn't. His other hand strokes the other side of my face, temple to chin, short nails grazing my skin as his fingers uncurl and drag under my ear, into my hair. He holds me there, thumbs sweeping and comforting in a way that I do and do not want as he speaks to the top of my head.

"There was no other way to get those clothes off. I can tell you how incredibly beautiful you are, but you won't believe me. I can tell you I had this"—he thrusts forward, and I laugh nervously, shifting away—"for you all day, since the moment I saw you at the meeting. But again, you won't believe me. It only makes you more uncomfortable, and saying it is a little cliché. Seduction does the same, worse even. You overthink a—"

My head snaps up. "I do not."

"And you talk too much."

I smash my lips together and give him a scathing glare, though I know it's all true—in a way. I always cut a third of my first drafts before submitting them, mostly description and adverbs and the word _'that.' _I should probably add_ 'and' _to that list, too, though I don't think I've ever had that problem before.

"Whatever you're thinking about right now—stop."

I laugh. We both do. But mine turns pitiful before dying in my throat. He can read me so easily, and his fingers massaging the nape of my neck are making me edgy—warm, but edgy.

Now his smile turns pitiful. "Obviously, I talk too much, too. I can see you're getting anxious, probably thinking of running again, so let me get straight to the point." He drops his hands and steps back. "I'm not touching you until you do."

"What?" Now that his hands aren't on me, I want them back.

"You have your pride; it brought you here, keeps you here. Well, I have mine. I want that orgasm you've never had, Isabella. I want to see it, be the cause of it." He palms himself, and I've never been more jealous in my life as he squeezes and groans. "I want to be the one who gives it to you—_helps_ give it to you. The next time you touch yourself, I want you to think of this night, of me and everything I could do to you, to get yourself to come."

_Jesus._ I don't know what bothers me more: Him rubbing one out right in front of me; the fact that I rub my legs together and he focuses on the movement; or how the word 'come' sounds like a smooth Greek delicacy from his mouth and it makes me want to, right there, on the spot.

And it's not even a command.

Maybe that's why it's so arousing. It's not a command. It's a plea, like my body is suddenly pleading and his pumps are strongly suggesting.

I dig the heels of my hands into the top of my thighs to get the heightening sensation to stop, to make my legs stop. Caius's burning gaze would then move from the apex of them to something else, and I wouldn't feel like I'm going to reach a summit, then plummet, and drown.

I succeed, partially.

Caius is no longer staring. His hard lines are inches from my soft curves. His face is buried in my hair as he breathes me in, causing tingles down my spine with every inhale, shaky exhale, and the words that he could say but doesn't.

My legs don't offer friction and give me away. His hands, replacing my own, are clenched around my thighs, at the base of my hips, pressing me flush against the column. It almost hurts—the stone digging into my spine, his hold on my legs, the ache between them.

I don't feel as though I'm trying to climb, only to fall. My hands grip his wrists and anchor me in place—as well as him. I don't want him to move away, or any closer.

Except, I hope for both and know he won't.

True to his word, he's only touching what I've touched. We're frozen in that position—in suspended anticipation and tightly held restraint, with only two veils of lace from making it thinly held to non-existent—until I move.

And I so badly want to move.

Forehead settling on his shoulder, I drag air into my lungs. He smells of clean male, of warmth and Dial soap, of a little sweat intermingling with refreshing cologne deodorant. I push down uncertainty, the fear of disappointment—his, mine—and all the questions I want to ask. I do what I know I should, and have always been too chicken to try.

I let go.

My hands release their controlling grip, skim up his forearms, and pull him closer by his elbows. I swallow the lump in my throat, my heart lodged there, though it hammers in my chest.

"Tell me what to do." _Because I want to know and get it right._

My hands shift to his abs, enjoying the feel of his muscles flexing as I stand on my toes to smell him at the base of his neck, hoping my trembling goes unnoticed.

"I could, but you won't enjoy it." My stomach brushes against the tip of him, and he hisses. "And you don't need it. Faster, harder, _deeper_"—his hips buck with mine at the inflection—"you'll know exactly what you need, what your body's demanding."

I still. _Okay. But what to do next?_ Transition—flow—is important, and momentum, that building courage, will be lost by missing a step, a beat, which could change everything.

Warm air fans down my neck, across my shoulder, and follows the slip of a bra strap.

"Don't think."

Goosebumps erupt all over. I feel the words as much as hear them, and like writing, I let emotion, sensation, an innate_ feeling_ guide me.

It's in fingers—his, running down my other bra strap, no skin-on-skin contact. They speak in silence of what should happen next, like a gentle tapping at insistent keys that want to be touched and also need to be: _i_ before _e_ except after _c_, him but only after me. So I reach behind me and unclasp my bra, a sigh resounding at the freedom from all day restraint, followed by a bated breath that dangles in the air like the flimsy fabric. Before my mind can get the best of me, I let the bra fall.

There's embarrassment and insecurity—the real terror of revealing too much, displaying what few have seen, and being judged or not accepted for it—because I'm not perfect. I feel small, unable to change who I am and how I'm shaped, yet still proud and needing to put myself out there, bound or unbound. One is a yearning I've had since childhood, and now that I'm older I can't decide which is scarier: To bare myself on paper or to a man I hardly know.

He fists himself, muscles straining but not moving otherwise. Neck stiff with a tick in his jaw, he stares openly, taking me in from head to toe before meeting my eyes. His show, and not merely tell. Smoky—the look, the shape, the color—grey eyes smolder. Admiration and wonder, mixing with want, make them gleam. With his every glance down, heavy lids and dilated pupils hint at a different kind of desire before flicking back up, licking flames over sensitive flesh like his tongue across his mouth.

I know what he's not saying, and I want it, too.

But I hesitate, and again, lending an invisible hand, he leans in and blows words across my skin. "Rule number two."

We laugh, low and breathy.

I can't help but smile and goad. "You're fond of rules, aren't you?"

"I am." Hands planted against the column, he slowly sinks to his knees, and trailing measured breaths tease. My hands balled at my sides, I squirm, but then freeze when he stops. Face a hair's breadth from my right breast, he grins up wryly. "Particularly this one—you take what you want, when you want."

Embarrassment colors me. He's referring to more than that rule. Skin tight—nipples tight—my hands fly up to cover them.

I should've known better, and maybe a part of me did, but it matters little.

His hands cover mine, fingertips caressing the outer edges and the undersides unhidden. I squeeze—I can't help it—and he groans, mimicking the action and pushing them together before dipping his head.

Hot lips, a tasting tongue, and a day-old scruff elicit a moan. I'm conscious—self-conscious—of the sound, but my hands are already buried in his hair as his tongue draws circles that make me dizzy and lazy and just goddamn crazy. His mouth closes around me, tongue still swirling, and my gasp turns into a throaty sound more embarrassing than the last.

But revolving need overrides. My body pushes, and arms pull; he sucks one side, and his fingers rub the peak of the other. I tug dandelion locks; he tugs with gentle teeth before pulling away. Gazes meet, and expressions match: dazed and glazed eyes, parted mouths, and jaws held forward a little.

Glistening? I'm not a fan of the term in sexual instances, but God, is it accurate to describe where his mouth was. My head drops back as he switches sides. What is it with men and symmetry? Must both boobs match? For once, I'm enjoying the mountain of wanting a man, but also crave more.

And he _knows_. I hate that he knows. He probably did it on purpose, or I'm talking aloud again and unaware of it.

Nuzzling, he stays where he is. "Take what you want, when you want, Isabella."

Adrenaline spikes, along with anxiety.

Sensing retreat, his hands and mouth slow and actually cheat. He massages my wrists, loosening my hold on his hair. Feather-light kisses on my stomach leave a whisper where my hands should start, before he drags his nose along the skin above my underwear and inhales. Temptation flutters with muscles.

He abruptly returns to my boobs, and I can only groan in frustration. At this rate—my rate—we'll be here all night, and though we have it, my nerves are wearing thin. I'm sure his are, too.

Skipping another ten minutes and more needless lines, my hand follows the one his nose led. Pausing, I close my eyes and think, _Outside, underneath, or off?_

Long fingers enclose my wrist, and he decides. _Underneath._

I sigh, grateful to have a triangle of fabric hiding my hand and that his own doesn't follow. I try not to think as I explore, concentrating on his hands on my breasts instead of what one of mine is doing below. Nibbling on my upper lip, I try not to think in terms and words because they only make me shift and uneasy—another problem I'm trying to alleviate by personal research, by experience, with the pressure escalating in my body and beneath my hand, and exactly like it.

I whimper, grazing a part so damn sensitive that it shouldn't be ignored but is anyway. I tell myself I'm dragging it out—procrastinating—but I know better. I'm afraid.

Caius stills. I remember his first rule and open my eyes. Dark and fathomless in all his silver- and gold-white form, his eyes threaten to swallow me whole if I stop. They hold and lure, drawing me in, and promising waves of pleasure in a sea of grey. He might not be watching what my hand is doing, but there's something incredibly sexy with him not being able to see because of my underwear, yet still know. Heat rushes.

Not able to take it, I jerk my hand out—at least, try to—but his joins mine as he swiftly stands. My jaw drops in surprise, mouth ready to protest, yet no words escape. Only air and the wants I've never had and won't voice pass my lips.

Foreheads pressed together with open mouths hovering, he won't kiss me like I want. We pant and tease, but won't take.

Our bodies pushing into each other, his hand grinds against mine like my sex does, when it's his sex I want—the one hard and throbbing on my stomach as he cages me in.

Against the column, hips rock while fingers intertwine, securing above and rubbing below, instead of us on the floor, with me on top of him like I want.

The fast-approaching sensation that speeds and does _not_ sneak up because blood races and pulses, making me grip with all my might before I lose control completely—I want it, and don't.

I tense and stretch, trying to break away as I ground out a warning. "Caius."

He isn't having it. He won't stand for it.

He drags us to our knees, his thigh wedging between my legs and trapping our hands as his free arm encircles my waist and he sits on his heels. He shifts and inserts fingers—one of his and mine—before pulling me back down. There's no escaping him or the impending release. He draws my knee up from between his legs, and the angle, with him adding a circling thumb, his own hips bucking, a muscular thigh driving up more pressure …

"Oh, G—"

He kisses me then, but a heat so profound floods my body that I hardly notice anything else. Everything seems to condense before falling away—noise and thoughts, nouns and similes, cares and fears.

It's only after I'm coherent enough of verbs—gasping and quaking mostly—do I realize that, even though Caius's mouth is hard against mine, his tongue is gentle. It's only after we remove our hands from me, and he wraps them around his sex, does embarrassment really hit and I try to help him come. And it's only after hearing our hard and harsh breaths, do I think—of the words unspoken, of a phrase I've never used, and a notion that once terrified me.

Seeing him throw his head back and laugh, I know I was thinking aloud.

_There are no words._

* * *

**An enthusiastic, orgasmic thank you to Arianna-Janae and Twimarti for holding the hand of a critical, insecure writer, telling her the story (and the concept) is not a stupid idea, and giving her the courage to post it.**


	2. L1 Ficology — The Erotic End

**Project Team Beta's Smut University 2012  
Lesson One — "****Ficology: The Human/Vampire Reproductive System" by TheSaintsMistress  
**Write a lemon using a Kama Sutra position you've never come across in a fic before, without it becoming an anatomy lesson.

— _**The Erotic End —**  
_

* * *

There is something so delicious about sex dreams. Even as figments of one's imagination, they are so amazingly real—so sensual, evocative, and palpable. They're like dirty little deeds privy only to you, and the facelessness adds to the activity. Though one senses whom, faces are not the focus. Only nerve endings brushing against other nerve endings matter.

As I ride Demetri's face, only the impression of his tongue swirling in and out, with his nose rubbing against my clit, matter.

I relax my legs and spread them farther apart. Gravity and body weight make me press further into his face. Though I don't hear it, I know he groans and likes the force. The restraining hold on my hips and the enthusiastic licks tell me so. If his mouth wasn't so busy, I know he'd grit out a Russian expletive as encouragement.

But sex dreams are like mind reading, only better.

They are unspoken wishes granted: an increase in speed. They are secret desires fulfilled: a harder, deeper thrust and curl of tongue. They are unknown needs with a hint of urgency: a hand gliding up my stomach before squeezing a breast. Hips rock faster. Fingers gently pinch and rub the nipple between them, and oblivion pulses within reach.

I moan, about to fall over the edge _and_ out of my dream. I can feel both, but don't want either to end. I beg in my head and with my body, but it's no use. Consciousness slips in faster than my orgasm does. The low hum of the air conditioner invades my ears, the ticking seconds of the Grandfather clock in the living room brings me into the present, and crisp sheets brush my skin as I'm pushed onto my back and the top sheet slides down the front of me.

"Good dream?"

Limbs and head heavy, I lazily open my eyes and see Demetri's silhouette, outlined by the streetlights glinting through our open bedroom windows. He sits near my feet, pulling down my shorts. I can't see his face, but his voice is gruff from sleep and hints at a smile.

I shift, letting him remove the cotton shorts from my ankles as I hum. "You have no idea."

His hands run up the length of my legs, palms coasting my ankles, then shins, before kneading up my thighs. "I think I do."

He leans in and trails his nose down the front of my underwear, his wavy, jaw-length hair brushing against my bare stomach and hips. When he inhales, I grab his forearms and fruitlessly try to tug him up.

"Well, can you hurry and do something about it? Because I didn't get to come."

He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his body—and my silky bikini bottoms as he presses his face into it. I buck, begging without words for him to take them off, but he moves away.

"Can someone actually come in dreams?" He draws down one side of my underwear, exposing the permanent ink of his name in Cyrillic script on my hip before nibbling on it.

"I don't know. I ca—" I gasp when he moves to the other side and licks along the crease of a thigh gradually revealed. "I can't remember. No one does."

"True." He thumbs the edges of my underwear, rubbing the seams and teasing. My legs banded with fabric, I can't widen them. As I reach down to remove the restraints, he playfully slaps my hands away.

I smack his shoulder. "Stop teasing! Not now."

He palms my half-covered ass, his fingers massaging as his thumbs sneak beneath the damp seams. "So, later?"

He slips in—just a little—but my body stretches up _and_ down. Taking the hint, he obliges. One of his thumbs caresses up the edges of sensitive flesh, spreading my arousal; while the other pushes in, gently, much too slowly, and then presses down. A gasp escapes my lips before turning into a guttural moan. Muscles clench; my hips flex, seeking more but getting none. Grogginess and plain bitchy frustration take hold.

"Yes! Later! Promise." As if he doesn't hear me, he dips his head down and sucks me through my delicate underwear. I throw my head back and groan. "_Demetri,_ please!"

Sitting back, he grabs my underwear and yanks them down, making my legs straighten up in the air as he removes the hindering fabric before throwing it over his shoulder. As my feet drop on either side of him, I rip my tee over my head and move to help him with his boxer briefs. But he's already pinning my knees open onto the bed and shoving his face between my thighs.

"Hhhhhh …"

My hands bury in his soft hair, needing something to hold on to, as I grind against him. Not even the best dream can match the feel of his scruff rubbing against me, the sound of slick heat and vigorous lapping, or the sensation of the ring I put on his finger over a year ago digging into my waist as he moves to hold me in place.

With my jaw slack, mouth dragging in air, I lift my head and glance down, enjoying the look of bliss on his face that I can easily recall even if my eyes hadn't adjusted to the dimly lit room, because he loves doing this for me—and himself—anywhere, anytime. I think of the leather swivel chair in our computer room, of the Volkswagen Bus we rented and pulled onto the side of a New Zealand highway, and then of the desk in his jackass father's office just last week.

A fresh wave of heat rushes, and his groan tells me he's aware of it. I'm ready, so past ready to come, but need more.

With a forceful tug and nudge from me, he looks up, flicks his tongue once more, and then kisses my inner thigh, lingering for a moment. He sexily wipes his mouth with a hand before crawling up my body. I don't know why he does that; I can still taste myself as we kiss—when I suck on his tongue and swallow his answering groan. Nonetheless, I appreciate it and enjoy the eroticism of sharing in one of the most intimate, unselfish ways possible.

Like my dreams, I don't have to tell him I need him inside me. I break away from the kiss. My legs curl around and intertwine with his. My forehead settles at the base of his neck, while my hands pull him closer by his waist. Our heavy breathing fills the room as slowly and as surely as he begins to fill me.

We relish the feel of our hips tilting and working to meet—how a throbbing ache has to be smoothed away before they can; and when they do touch, everything matters and comes into focus. The light sprinkle of hair tickling my nose and eyelids as I press my face into his chest; his nose at the top of my head, in my hair, as he hovers above me and cages me in with his arms; the muscular gluts contracting beneath my hands as he thrusts, punctuated by sharp exhales.

Balancing on a hand, he shifts to pull my leg over his arm. If I wasn't so worked up, I would savor the new angle, how he takes his time and likes to watch where our bodies connect—and the look on his face when he does.

But I'm impatient and don't want to prolong the moment until I come. Plus, I'm still a little sleepy, my head a bit loopy, which is probably part of the reason I want to try something new. Pushing him to lie on his back, I sit up to move on top—more control, and a guarantee to have us both coming in no time.

Except, instead of directly facing him as I straddle his hips, I face his feet.

He grabs my hips and squeezes, surprised and excited as I lift up on my knees and grasp his manhood with a hand. "Jesus, Bella."

"Shh …" I don't want hear it, knowing my own eagerness, as I direct him at my entrance and with my words. "Sit up, Dem."

"Huh?" He's breathless; we both are as I ease down, taking him in bit by bit. We've done this before, though not quite like this. As always, the angle is a little tricky, the position precarious if we move too fast, and with me on top, I'm so damn sensitive and can feel every inch of him. When fully seated, I bring my knees up, feet planting flat on the bed, and then still.

"Sit up. Ah—_slowly_." When I feel him close to my back, I move my hands from his thighs and next to our hips. My fingertips just barely reach the bed enough to help keep me steady as I lean forward a little and grind down once. "Oh!"

My eyes clench shut. I shakily expel air through my nose, and suck through my teeth. A quiver ripples through me, long and continuous as I begin to rock in small waves—sinuous, drawing circles. "Ohhhh …"

I can feel Demetri panting on the nape of my neck, and can practically hear him grinding his teeth in his effort not to slam up into me. He's letting me get comfortable and figure out a rhythm.

But as soon as he realizes I've found it, he leans back, supporting his weight on his hands, and then swivels his hips.

"Shhhiit."

My head drops back, my spine arching as he does it again and again. The countering circling of our hips, vertical against horizontal, rub within and throughout in the most delectable way. I lean forward a little more, my thighs teasing the tips of my breasts with every roll of my hips. He drags a hand down my back, making me stretch and my ass curve up toward him more. Fingers curling around my hip, he massages the top of one my cheeks with a thumb, and I know he's watching where we're joined.

The thought makes me pulse—deep inside—and I have to work hard to keep to the rhythm. Then he adds a thrust with every rotation.

"Ahhh …" My head drops forward now, and I can barely moan out, "Good, God."

I won't last that much longer, and I almost want to as we build up speed. But my legs grow tired quickly, and every drive from Demetri lifts me up and begins to throw me off balance. He notices and, no longer sitting up or patient, he grasps my hips with both hands before holding me down. I shift back onto my knees and clutch his wrists, knowing I'm going to have to brace myself and hang on.

The pause doesn't last long.

He's already thrusting, pulling me up and down, encouraging, helping. Our harsh breaths intermingle with my moans, his grunts, and the sound of sweaty skin smacking as I bounce atop him. The sounds and the weight in my breasts are enough to throw me over the edge, making me crest into my long-awaited chasm from sensation, where everything is out of focus for one mere moment.

Suddenly, his chest is flush against my back, and I know he's about to come. He no longer guides me up and down, but forward and back, frantically, his legs widening so he can get in deeper. His mouth open on my shoulder blade, he groans out my favorite Russian endearment, which I know is also a plea for me to kiss him.

I look over my shoulder, seeing his face in rapt concentration—strong, square jaw jutted out, eyes clenched tight, with dark brows drawn down; I love it, _love him_.

I kiss him, my orgasm ebbing but body still thrumming as he comes. Later, as we collapse in an odd tangle of limbs, I'll think that no matter how great sex dreams are, there is nothing compared to this, to the reality of him and me, to the adventures (and positions) we have and are willing try for the other to keep the excitement going. I won't dream of sex, either. I'll dream of ten tiny fingers and ten little toes.

* * *

**The Erotic End: bit .ly /KKlBqR **(Delete two spaces, before the '.ly' and the '/')

**The endearment: '**_**Goobka' = **_**lips **(rough translation, taken from дай губкы, '_daĭ gubky_,' a sloppy way of saying "Give me your lips.")

**Thanks to IamTheAlleyCat and dreaminginnorweigen for answering my question on the Russian. Big hugs to dreaminginnorweigen for sharing and letting me use the personal endearment, though I ended up deleting it because it seemed odd—really standing out, and not in a good way—but I thought it was too damn cute (and a bit sexy) to keep it to myself.**


	3. L2 The Non Completely Gratuitous Lemon

**Lesson Two —**** "The Non (Completely) Gratuitous Lemon" by LyricalKris  
**One of your characters is hiding something. The guilt is eating them alive. It leaks into everything, bleeds into what should be a moment of passion, of love.  
They try to lose themselves in the moment, the pleasure, but they can't.

Extra credit: Write your lemon without the use of graphic words: cock, penis, vagina, hole, pussy, insert, etc.  
Try to write the act with emotion rather than play-by-play description.

_* For Credoroza, twilly, and Twimarti. *  
(A/N: This assignment was hard, and I still don't think I got it right. This is also my first attempt at third person narrative and the canon pairing. :s Be gentle?  
Oh, and the mistakes are all mine.)_

— _**The Non-Mistakes, Life —**_

* * *

She hurriedly parallel parks her car in the first space she sees before throwing open the door and jumping out. Her pumps clack against asphalt and then concrete, following her shadow and the staccato thumps of her heart. The streetlights mark intervals quickly and not quickly enough, swallowing and spitting her out by turns. Nausea and anxiety spike, and her lips clamp shut; she's determined to hold herself together, to not reveal too much, and just get there.

She's never late. Not ever. But as the beautiful Brownstone comes into view, she slows her steps and wills herself not to think of the reason why. The façade still takes her breath away. It's theirs, entirely theirs. The red brick, creamy trim, and lovely wrought iron accents hold so many meanings for her and them, but today, there are too many—and only one that's important.

He'll be waiting inside. He'll be pacing and tugging his swarthy penny-colored hair. As soon as she walks through the door, he'll question what happened, if she's okay, and why she didn't call. But if she can appear calm and remorseful, maybe she can convince him that she ran into a friend, got caught up on each other's lives over coffee—too many cups of it if the buzzing in her body is any indication—and there was traffic.

It's the truth, in a roundabout way.

Coming upon the house, she pushes aside the thoughts of omissions that threaten to creep in and overwhelm her, along with the remaining indecision. Soft yellow light spills onto the sidewalk and the front stoop.

He's home. She can't linger, on this side of the door or on half-truths.

Her legs wobble as she ascends the steps, which they helped the renovators lay. Her hands shake on the wrought iron railing that they chose together. Her keys jangle and announce her arrival, but hopefully, not her nerves. Holding her breath and composing her face, she unlocks the door, pushes it open, and steps over the threshold.

Gazes meet. Bodies freeze. One hand stills on a doorknob; one stays clenched in locks of hair, while the other two suspend at the sides like air and time. Then the tension of the day eases, as it always does when they set eyes on one another; it's visible in falling chests, the shared warm looks and seven years of comfort. But the relief is fleeting—at least, for her.

Dr. Marcus's somber smile comes to mind, and Bella looks away first, turning to close the door. "I'm sorry."

She doesn't specify what for. She is and isn't sorry for being late, for what's happened and what won't. Edward doesn't say anything or approach. It's so unlike him that she glances in his direction as she sets down her things on the hallway table. "Is everything okay?"

He counters with "Is it true?"

She resists the urge to swallow before meeting his eyes and smiling. "Is what true?"

He purses his lips, and his brows furrow. "That you're now Assistant Director of the Art Institute." He gives her a weird look before smiling. "What else?"

Her shoulders sag, her body relaxing yet spirit deflating. Though she wants him to notice, to be caught and asked exactly what's on her mind, she covers the movement by taking off her shoes, a leg curling up behind her as she reaches back to remove one pump. She's off balance for a moment, teetering on one heeled foot and between excitement and frustration—between so many other things. She's already emotional.

"Nothing. Just _…_ tired." She's always tired these days—and scared—but her smile turns genuine. "And yes, they offered me the position."

_And I declined,_ goes unspoken.

He yells in triumph and glee. Striding over to her quickly, he scoops her up in his arms, her other shoe dropping and her heart warming—yet also clenching. He has the biggest grin on his face, malachite-green eyes alight and captivating with the corners crinkling a little. He's so proud. She wonders if he will be when she tells him the other news.

Knowing the answer, she struggles to keep her smile in place and not burst into tears. He won't forgive her. She's known his greatest fear, his biggest stipulation, and she _…_ forgot. _No …_ she didn't forget. She could never forget. She simply became careless, too busy. Now, all she can do is throw her arms around his neck and hold on—hold it in—as he spins them in circles.

"I knew you'd get the job! Didn't I tell you?" He abruptly stops and kisses her before she can answer. It's short, nice with a little tease of tongue, but too short. And she's dizzy; she feels sick and can't find her voice. Too elated to notice, he sets her down and grabs her hand, tugging her into the kitchen. "Come on. We should celebrate."

After they round the corner, he opens the Sub-zero fridge and reaches inside for the Riesling—her favorite.

She pulls back. "Um, I can't. I'm _…_ I'm really tired, and _…_ I think I had enough at the celebratory meeting earlier." A grimace shadows the lie, and she tries to hide it by looking away. Her eyes land on their dinner across the room: cold Chicken Picatta on a bed of homemade linguine, with baby carrots and little pea pods. Her stomach churns, and she grips the edge of the counter.

"Oh? Is that why you're late?"

"Yeah _…_" The lie comes easily, without much thought, as she reaches for a glass and fills it at the sink. She gulps down the cold liquid, thinking, _Too soon. Too fast._ Forcing herself to slow down, she pushes air threw her nose, the glass fogging and her eyes stinging.

"Figured. You're never late."

_And that, too,_ she thinks, swallowing the last bit of water left. She's never late, but she is. Eleven weeks, five days, if the doctor and the ultrasound are correct.

"It would've been nice if you called, you know?"

Hurt and a smidgen of anger color his tone; she knows it stems from fear. Setting down the glass, she walks back over to him and tugs him closer. Her feet are cold, bare on the tile, and there's a weight in her shoulders, a strain that won't leave. Her mind has been so preoccupied lately. Though he's always in her thoughts, she purposely didn't call. She needs to get her bearings—without his help for once—before she can tell him. It's tearing her up inside, and she's unintentionally hurting him in the process.

Her hands find themselves under his shirt, at the base of his back, as she pushes her face into his chest. "I'm sorry. You know Esme. She …"

His chest rumbles, and arms encircle her as he finishes, "Thrust a drink into your hand and told you you were going to need it?"

They chuckle together, thinking about the old but still going strong museum Director. But then, Bella's laughter dies in her throat as her face crumples. She recalls Esme's easy compassion and slight disappointment when she told the dear Director she couldn't accept. She didn't give reasons; she needed to tell Edward first, and she already told Rosalie, her best friend, before him.

She hates that fact and the lies that keep stacking, how they _…_ don't become easier, but are easier to brush aside.

Edward's hands move lower, palms curving at the top of her backside. Her hands counter, dragging higher along his spine, before she hugs him. He's forgiven her. But will he forgive her for this?

She squeezes him harder. "I love you."

He presses her against him and whispers, "I need you."

His words slice through her, more than her own do. She needs him, too. Needs to tell him.

When she tilts her head back, he takes it as an invitation. He kisses her, hard and deep, swallowing her choked back cry masked as a gasp. She can't help but put her whole body into it. She needs to taste him—and for him to taste her, to feel and know beyond any future doubt that she loves him.

She needs him to understand that she didn't mean to forget to take the pill for four days straight. She didn't mean to get pregnant, nor did she want to keep it from him for the past two weeks. She thinks, for one second, that she shouldn't have fought him so hard on which contraceptive she would take. A part of her had hoped that he would change his mind. But that was years ago, and they haven't talked about it since.

She's sorry, and she isn't.

When he bunches up her skirt and lifts her so she can wrap her legs around him, she murmurs against his lips, "Bedroom." She needs somewhere soft, a place that doesn't remind her of where the non-mistake was made—because even if she made a mistake, _their _baby isn't.

As he groans and turns, carrying her up the stairs and almost falling down them because he trips, she pushes down her own frustration. She needs him to remember that the responsibility isn't only hers. He should wear a condom, every time, no matter how needy either one of them becomes. As they help each other undress, leaving a trail of clothes to the bedroom, she wants to remind him it takes two, and they both knew the risk.

Maybe he'll be sorry, but she won't be.

Once they're in their room, mouths are less rough; tongues are more languid and provoking. Steady, sure hands explore and tease. When she lays on the bed, scooting back slowly, trying to push away fear and insecurity, doubts and guilt, he follows her. He says something ridiculous, and she can't help but throw her head back and laugh. She forgets the world for a moment. He is her escape, and she is his. It's one of things she loves most about them.

She loves how he can make her giggle and then moan and writhe, too. How he takes a few minutes to worship her with his eyes, with his fingers and mouth; how the sexiest yet most loving things he could say are whispered upon her skin with a tilted, secret smile; how he looks when his lips part as he gasps, and how he grits his teeth as she wraps her hand around him.

He doesn't simply arouse her. He makes her feel wanted—cherished and beautiful. Will he still think so when her belly's grown? Will he be able to trust her again, even if he forgives her? Will he still _want_ her? She knows from her first marriage that love isn't enough, that it's about communication and trust—both of which, she hasn't been practicing.

She won't make that mistake twice.

Taking her withdraw as sign of readiness instead of the retreat that it is, he moves away to put on an unneeded condom. Her hands cover her—hide her—legs closing as she looks away. But then they part without a conscious thought when she feels him hover above her; she wants him, will always want him.

He peels her hands from her body, kissing them before wrapping them around his back. He eases into her, and she grips him with all her might, with her arms and legs—with the muscles between them. Hips roll and meet, increasing in speed and pressure, and all the while, she prays he doesn't leave, that this isn't last time he makes love to her. She prays the universe isn't cruel, that she doesn't die on him like his first wife did at childbirth, taking the baby with her. She knows the chances are slim, but it matters little to him. And she is 36, not as young as Tanya, who had only been 24.

As her eyes begin to water, she pushes him back and turns onto her side, an arm curling under a pillow and a hand pulling him closer behind her. Their hearts thud against each other, front to back, and hers breaks a little. A teenager can still love her boyfriend when she does stupid things. A child still loves her parents, even if she plays selfish and dumb. A wife can love her husband and still want more.

It's a bittersweet agony when he fills her again. She feels complete but doesn't.

As he begins to thrust and they pant, his hand comes to rest on her stomach. She grabs it and brings it to her chest, holding on for dear life—because that's what their baby is, and what he does to her when he half covers her body with his, pushing her into the bed and pounding into her. He won't feel anything if his hand was there, but the sentiment is lost and too goddamn painful—just like the orgasm that rips through her, and the cry erupting from her throat.

Because if she had to choose, Edward already lost.

She's sure he wouldn't ask that of her, but before, she was also sure she would always choose Edward. She _did_ choose him, when she married him, though she knew beforehand that he didn't want have kids. But now she wants kids—his, theirs.

She's shaking when Edward pauses behind her, still inside her. And when he asks her what's wrong, she'll tell him_,_ starting with_ ...  
_

_____I'm never late, but I am._

_I'm sorry, and I'm not._


	4. L4 Spanking the Monkey — Perdition

**Lesson Four —**** Spanking the Monkey by BellaFlan  
**Write any kind of masturbation scene, as long as it's outside of your comfort zone. Remember to describe what your character is thinking and feeling (using as few adverbs as possible). There should be at least one reference to Cornflakes.

— _**Perdition —  
**(*winces* Writing this was close to perdition, too.)_

* * *

Carlisle needed a drink and a freezing cold shower. It had been six months since he'd seen her last. Six months since she'd been naked and writhing beneath him. Since she'd stormed out the next morning, her face flush with angry tears and a disbelieving, heart-stricken expression.

He had prepared himself to see her as he turned the corner into his backyard, but the sight before him had made him halt.

There, in the midst of friends, she stood. In a modest sapphire dress that enticed the imagination and made her ivory skin glow, dark henna-brown hair in a high, sleek ponytail, lips curved in a secret smile, and eyes sparkling, she was as stunning and young as ever.

Isabella Swan. The girl he knew so well, the woman he loved, and his daughter's best friend.

Guilt and shame, longing and disgust, roiled in his stomach, tying him in knots. Worse still was the desire pulsing beneath his tight skin and the fierce protectiveness—not borne of parental inclination, but of jealousy—that made him want to drag her into the house.

He knew what hid beneath that damnable dress, how smooth and supple she felt under his hands, how good she tasted on his tongue. He knew her hair smelled of magnolias and was silkier than it looked; the sensation, the memory, of it gliding down his stomach and teasing his thighs made him twitch even now. And he knew how those same lips parted and eyes clenched when she'd come, how they could declare love and shine with adoration one minute, then challenge him the next.

How they could brim of tears, quiver, and taste of salt, like when he'd broken it off.

But it didn't matter. It didn't matter that they no longer saw each other, or that she had been 21 the first time he looked at her in such a way. It didn't matter if they had come to depend, respect, and love one another before acting on their feelings, that they had tried to stop before it was too late. Nor did it matter that he was only Alice's adoptive father and 16 years older than them.

The age gap was still there. The deed, with all its wonderful and, later, painful memories, was done. And he would always want her, whether they were together or not. She was too embedded in his life, in his head, and under his skin for him to hope otherwise.

Resentment lashed at him before he pushed it back. He wasn't angry with her. Just the circumstances and himself. He was older and should've known better.

There was no ridding of the desire, though, especially not as he watched her throw her head back and laugh. He used to make her laugh like that, used to hear it as he flicked his tongue over the ticklish spot behind the lobe of her ear. He remembered how her slender neck tasted of soap and sweat, smelled sweet and spicy. How she moaned his name as he sucked, too.

He saw her stiffen, the gleeful sound dying in her throat, and he steeled himself. They could always sense each other; they were good together. But not anymore.

Slow and cautious, she turned her head. Espresso brown met his ordinary blue. Hope and love bloomed. Awareness and hunger crackled. For a moment, he thought they both would step toward each other, would reveal themselves in way they had wanted to since the beginning, though never as strongly as now.

But then she looked away, and he felt the blow like a punch to the gut. He ended things, not her. So why did it hurt so much?

Before anyone else could notice him, he schooled his face and yelled out, "Hey, kids!"

He grimaced, not needing the reminder but unable to stop himself from saying it.

The group turned toward him. "Cool Coach C!"

He forced a smile on his face, accepting the name and handshakes as they came over to greet him. He had coached a few of these boys in high school baseball, and since he never lost his temper, even during the worst games, the nickname had stuck. Even though there were a few new additions and they had all grown up, Alice and Bella's tight knit group of friends were as much his own kids as Alice was.

They had also been there for him and his daughter when Esme died five years earlier, but no one more so than Isa—no, _Bella_. The name was less intimate, less … mature, and he needed this reminder as he watched her walk over.

But before she could reach him, he felt a body smack into his back and arms encircle his neck.

"Hey, Dad."

He reached up and squeezed her arms before looking over his shoulder. Warmth spread through his chest at Alice's beaming smile and how she called him dad. Though she'd been ten when he and Esme had taken her in after her parents died, he never expected Alice to call him by anything other than his name.

They shared a grin like the first time she had said it. But guilt overrode pride as she kissed his cheek, let go, and walked to stand at Bella's side, throwing an arm around her best friend.

"You missed it! We got the birthday girl here to take her first shot."

He winced and saw Bella grimace. Hating the looking on her face, but also needing to say something, he nodded at her and said, "Happy Birthday, Bella."

He hoped no one noticed how low, how pained and yet reverent he'd said it. She did, though, and their gazes caught. Blood pounded in his ears. Images of their last time together flashed in his mind. How her breasts bounced with his every slow and hard thrust. How it looked to disappear inside her. How she looked at him when she told him she loved him—and when she slapped him.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and saw her do the same. They looked away at the same time, and he noticed Alice's brows furrow. Fear shot through him as he noticed the awkward silence. He glanced back at Bella and said the first thing that came to mind.

"So, what does that make you? Forty now?"

Everyone laughed, but she flinched. Closing his eyes, he let his head fall forward, let the bile rise in his throat, the acid churn and burn in his stomach.

Dear God, he was bastard. Her maturity used to be a joke between them all, but between him and her, it was a low blow.

"I know you're not forty yet, but I think I have_ quite_ a few years to reach your age." His head snapped up at the barely contained venom in her voice. Around a tight smile, she gritted out, "Don't you agree, _Daddy _C?"

It was his turn to flinch as everyone chuckled. They knew he wasn't fond of the nickname coined by the cheerleaders; it had parents wondering what it implied more times than he could count. Bella was never a cheerleader, though—she had been the high school and now the university's mascot, just as he had been—but he loathed the name from her mouth.

He wanted to kiss that mouth. Hard. Make her take it back. Force his way into her until she did. Then tell her that he was sorry as settled between her legs.

She raised a brow and scraped her teeth over her bottom lip with deliberate slowness, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking.

She probably did, and if no one were here, he would've taken her silent taunt and ran with it—throwing her over his shoulder, giving her ass a nice, hard spank as he strode to the house, before making furious love to her just inside the doorway.

He smiled when he saw her chest rise and fall faster. She knew his thoughts, all right, and boy, was he tempted to act them.

But a honk brought him back to reality, as well as the disgust and shame. They hadn't noticed how everyone began talking around them, and he hoped no one had noticed their interaction—or the hard-on he was sporting.

Shifting, he glanced at Alice. She was chatting with Jasper. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but he did note how they touched each other. It seemed he wasn't the only one keeping secrets.

But his was worse. Far worse. He resisted the urge to watch his secret walk away—and not succeeding, in the least. He wished he'd told her how beautiful she looked, that he loved her and was sorry, and so many other things.

Alice turned to him. "That's the limo. Are you sure you can't come to the wedding? We can wait for you to get ready. I know you don't know Demetri very well, but you were invited."

He shook his head. "I'm fine."

She put her hands on her hips, and her eyes narrowed. "What are you doing tonight, anyway?"

"Um …" He scratched the back of his neck, aware of all the eyes on him—though only two sets mattered. "I, uh …" His gaze went around the group before settling on Bella. What he saw next hurt him more than anything had.

Edward Masen, USC's star pitcher, had his arms around Bella. Carlisle stared, burning a hole at the side of her head as deep as the one he was falling into, for she wouldn't look at him. But he knew she was waiting for his answer like everyone else was, and as he continued to descend, he realized he could tell the truth without hurting her.

"I, uh … I have a date." He was surprised the words came out. He couldn't swallow, couldn't breathe. He rubbed his chest and blinked rapidly as everyone whooped. A few of those next to him slapped his back, but he wanted to vomit.

He had told her to move on. He just never expected to see it—and right in front of him. Oh, who was he kidding? He knew he would witness it. But did it have to be so soon? And with one of the old teammates?

He knew he was being a hypocrite. He did have a date tonight, but it didn't mean anything. It was set up _last week_ because the kids would be over for the weekend, not four months ago when he declined and sent his well wishes and apologies to Demetri. He hoped Alice wouldn't point out that bit, though, as he reached out and hugged her.

"Have fun, kiddo." He kissed the top of her head. "You look beautiful."

"Thanks, Dad." She squeezed him before resting her chin on his chest and looking up. "You okay? You look pale all of the sudden and …" She frowned. "You seem … sad, too."

He hugged her tighter. "I'm fine. I should probably eat something. Haven't all day." Before she could say anything else, he kissed her head one more time and turned away.

"Yo, Coach C!" Carlisle stopped and looked at Emmett, who grinned. "I hope you didn't have your Cornflakes this morning."

Carlisle snorted and shook his head, cracking another forced smile before waving the buffoon off. He couldn't believed he'd told the team how Cornflakes were thought—by the creator, Mr. Kellogg's himself—to be an anti-aphrodisiac. He'd been horrified at the time he'd let the little factoid slip, but it later became a joke before any one of them went on a date.

The quip had never been used on him, and if the crowing and guffaws were indication, they were all aware of it. As he strode across the yard, he ignored the one person who wasn't laughing. He could feel her young, dark eyes following him, burning and branding him.

Killing him.

* * *

As the hot water washed over his back, Carlisle sighed. It was the worst date of his life. Granted, he hadn't been in the most amicable mood during, but Heidi was all wrong for him.

She wasn't a petite brunette. She wasn't reserved and subtle, with a hint of wild spirit, a large dose of loyalty, and the backbone of a caring mother hen.

She was tall, blonde, and as subtle as a Mack truck with her plastic breasts and devouring eyes. She didn't help the little boy who fell in front of her on the sidewalk, either.

She wasn't Isabella, all soft curves, sweet and spice, with a raw, natural sensuality that lay barely hidden. His body knew it, too.

He was ashamed to admit that he had tried to take Heidi up on her silent offer. But when he had kissed her, groped her, licked the cleavage she didn't hide, he couldn't get hard.

Only after he had left her apartment, drove back home, and thought of Isabella did his traitorous body react.

Frustrated, he grabbed the conditioner he kept for these instances, which were becoming more frequent, and squeezed some into his hand. Putting the bottle back, he planted a hand on the slick tile wall and bowed his head, trying to get a grip and clear his head.

He hated was he was about to do. No man enjoyed doing this, but it was necessary. As he wrapped his fingers around the base of cock and _squeezed_, he tried not to groan. It shouldn't feel this good, but it does.

His hand slid over thin, taut skin covering hard muscle. His eyes clenched shut, and he tried not think of her. She was too young for him. He shouldn't be thinking of her and all that glorious hair and skin and the heat between her legs. He would only feel more shame after the deed was done—after he came. Gratification was fleeting when one masturbated, and when it was done to thoughts of your daughter's best friend, disgust became the main emotion.

So he gritted his teeth and pushed thoughts of her from his mind. He went through the motions, tried to lose himself in the sensation of being stroked, of being squeezed, of the swirl at the tip of his cock before a downward pump.

But it was better to be buried in slick, tight heat while hips met and circled. It was better to have hands that were not your own touching every part of you, bearing weight on your chest, then palms gliding down and nails grazing sensitive flesh. It was better when two people were involved, when it was hunger and desperation shared—and even better when love drove it.

And he did love her. He wasn't a pervert just trying to get his jollies off. Well, at this moment, maybe in theory, but not in essence. The tightening in his chest as his hand, his thighs, his ass flexed wasn't just desire. It was something deeper, more intense, and he still couldn't figure out if loving her made what he'd done—the betrayal to his daughter and to the woman who consumed him—that much worse.

He was lying to his Alice.

He had lied to Isabella six months ago.

His tugs became harsher, more insistent; the speed of his pumps and thrusts faster, as well as his breathing, as he thought of that day.

He had tried to make what they had into something base and meaningless, and he hated it. Pushing her onto all fours, he had positioned himself between her legs She had welcomed it, going willing because she knew what he was doing.

He had rubbed his length against her, taunting with his size and with his words, before nudging with just the broad, blunt tip of him, hinting at what he would give her—what he could only give her. She had pushed back into him, daring him to continue lying to himself and begging in silence with her body, with her _I don't care_s_, I love you_s, and _You're all I want, all I'll ever want _lingering in the air and in his ears.

Sheathed inside of her, he had reached around and spread her with his fingers, rubbing as he pumped into her at the right speed, drawing it out. Slow and deep, long and hard. Punctuated by severe breaths, and even severer words that he didn't say.

He'd been angry with her for saying it, for lying, just as he had. Because he knew she wanted more, like he did. She knew he loved her long before he had touched her, even if he wouldn't say it—had denied it. He hated how she called him out and met his bluff, proving her love even when he wouldn't—couldn't.

But damn it, he'd been so scared. And hurt.

So he held onto her hip and pounded into her, watched as her sweet, little backside shook and how she took every damn inch of him in—his cock with her body, his heart and soul with her trust and faith.

But then he hated how he could hear her moans but not see her lips part, her eyes trained on his before clenching shut. He had leaned down, cradling her body with his as he thrust and grinded against her, his fingers still stroking her from the front. He wanted to see those breasts bouncing instead of just feeling the weight and movement on his arm. He wanted to watch her face as she came, to kiss her and give in.

He wanted to do the impossible.

He wanted to marry her.

To wake up to magnolias and deep brown eyes every morning, to stop hiding and sneaking and feeling guilty, to stop treating what they shared like it was shameful—that was what he wanted. He'd been half-crazed as he'd buried his face her hair and told her so, the idea and saying the words bringing release of every kind for both of them.

He was half-crazed now as white-hot heat gathered at the base of his spine, the pressure traveling around his hips, down his thighs, and pooling at his groin. He didn't stop that day, and he didn't stop now. He had used two hands to push her down and draw out their orgasms; he used two hands, wrapped around his cock, to tug and pull his release out.

He groaned, his head falling back before his jaw dropped open with the last thread of pleasure.

Then the loss and hollowness, the guilt and disgust, came.

Washing over him like steady, unrelenting water, never ending.


	5. L5 Realism in Fic — Nooner

**Lesson Five —**** Realism in Fic by SexyLexiCullen  
**Draw from a personal sexual experience – good, bad, or ugly – and write it out. Bring yourself back to that moment and try to express your own feelings.

_(Yeah, I almost skipped this assignment. Writing it last minute and with my twitter babes in mind, I went E/B and light and fluffy—if you can consider it that. As always, all mistakes are mine, and I'm sorry I didn't have time to pre-read this one.)_

— _**Nooner —**_

* * *

Time. There never seems to be enough of it, though the days are long. Measured by careful minutes, a snail's pace sun, another torn off calendar page, there's always a train to catch, a baseball game or a ballet practice to attend, a birthday or holiday to celebrate. Bills stack and then lessen as they're paid. Dishes and laundry accumulate, then washed, only to be dirtied again.

I live by these moments that are like cycles, a rinse and repeat, which I'm doing a horrible job of it at the moment while I wash my hair as quickly as possible. I have thirty minutes to get myself ready for my youngest, Jacob's, sixth birthday party. The decorations are done, the food cooked and placed out, and the 3D, Transformer-shaped cake is iced and perfect. All three kids are ready, too, and the house is spotless, though how long those will remain clean is another matter.

As I scrub my body frantically, I try not to get frustrated by that fact—how it's an endless, repeating routine that's hardly appreciated or noticed. But it doesn't matter. I not only live by these moments but _for_ them, as well. I can't wait to see Jacob's face when he sees the cake I made him, how his smile—always present and warming—will be bigger today, and how all the kids will have a blast with the bouncy castle.

Though, sometimes, I have to say that—_I live for these moments_—like a mantra, a forceful reminder. But sometimes—most times—I don't think about it all. I don't have the time, and I'm on zooming auto-pilot. I just wish I had more time to sit back and enjoy it all.

Figuring all the soap is washed away, though it probably isn't, I turn the water off and hurriedly wring out my hair. I push the shower curtain aside and reach out for a towel.

Only to jump, my feet slipping on white porcelain before I grab the towel holder, as I see a dark figure standing in the bathroom.

"Jesus, Edward!"

He only smiles, a slow hitching of one corner of his mouth. I know that smile, that wicked gleam in his eyes, what the slow, perusing drop of his gaze means.

Smashing my lips together, I shake my head. "Ohhh no. Not now."

Grabbing the towel, I dry off quickly and step out of the tub, securing the towel around me and wrapping another around my sopping hair. Reaching across the two-sink vanity, I swipe my hand along the mirror to get rid of the fog, seeing Edward's reflection as he continues to stand near the door behind me.

"Get out. _Please,_" I whine. "I can't get ready fast enough with you watching me."

Crossing his arms, he leans back against the door and shakes his head. That damn smile is still on his face.

I growl at him. "Where are the kids?"

"With Alice and Jasper. In the backyard."

I slather on some face lotion. "Oh, and that makes it okay and me want to do it." I shake my head. "Sorry, buddy, not happening."

My sarcasm doesn't faze him one bit; it never has. He merely laughs and stares, taking me in with those Soul Snatcher eyes—the nickname he procured while in the military because his pupils were abnormally large, almost engulfing the iridescent green irises and seeming to swallow you whole with his penetrating, unmoving gaze. Not only did they work on women, but they also made his superiors want to squirm.

Like me. Right now. I can't remember the last time he looked at me like that—and with such heat behind it.

But I shake my head and huff, knowing he won't leave and that time's running out. I pump globs of lotion into my hand and start on my legs, going as quickly as possible without missing a spot while trying to keep the towel from dropping. If it falls, I'm screwed. He'll be over here in a second to take advantage.

Done with the horrible and partial lotion job, I let down my hair, brush through it quickly, and whip it up into a bun. I blow out a harsh breath, annoyed water's dripping down my neck. I eye Edward, hoping he'll leave so I can lotion the rest of me and blow dry my hair without the towel on.

Yet, he hasn't moved, and now I might have to skip curling the ends of my hair. Agitation simmers, and I have to work to calm myself down. This year, I want to get pictures of me with the kids. There are hardly any, and the ones that can be found I look horrid and a tired mess.

I bounce impatiently, pleading, "Come on. I timed it perfectly so I wouldn't have to rush on my makeup."

He strides over to me, and I tense, not in the mood. One arm wraps around my waist and the other across my chest as he hugs me from behind. My shoulders drop, and I sigh. This is his silent way of telling me to take a moment and relax. And it always works. Hunching over, he rests his chin on my shoulder. I meet his gaze in the mirror and soften at the tender look he's giving me.

"You don't need it."

A part of me melts. A smile tugs at my lips as my chest constricts. Then I laugh. "Wow! You really want it, don't you?"

He chuckles, his breath playing across my ear as his mouth teases the shell of it. "I want you, yes."

Squeezing me closer, he bends down and flicks his hips forward once, the hard thickness of him nudging into my backside even through his shorts. My eyelids flutter a little as I drag in a sharp breath through my nose. Then I laugh again and try to push him back, though it's a half-hearted attempt.

"We don't have time."

The hand wrapped around my hip moves, gliding across the top of my thigh, then my lower belly, before it slips beneath the flap of the towel. He cups my bare sex and pulls me harder into him. He nuzzles my neck. "We'll make time."

He says it with such warmth, and I'm breathless. The phrase—one, we used when we moved to opposite coasts for college, when we had our third child, when we realized our marriage was falling apart and any other time after then—always has that effect on me. And … he's sliding a finger between my legs, forward and back, caressing, teasing. I'm wet—we're both aware of it—and I can't blame the shower entirely. But also not wanting to acknowledge aloud that he's winning so easily, I grit my teeth and grip the edge of the sink.

"Fine."

He chuckles again, this time against the nape of my neck as his forehead presses against the back of my head. He licks the beads of water there as he rubs against me from behind with his hips and up with his hand, all in time with each other. My stance widens without thought. I grind against the hard front of him and down into his hand. The tip of a finger dips in before he drags it forward, circling the most tense, inflamed part of me as his nose travels down my neck to the end of my shoulder.

"I don't want just 'fine.'" He circles my clit once more and presses down gently before stroking back and resuming the torturous grazes that are both intoxicating and maddening.

"Okay! Okay." I take in a ragged breath and squeeze my eyes shut. "God."

He adds the heel of his hand and then slips his other hand under the top of the towel, making it open and fall, stuck between us, as his finger strokes slick heat and he traces the edge of a nipple with the other. "Not good enough."

I slap my palms atop the counter. "Yes! Okay? Yes! I want you inside me, filling me. Hard"—I look at the clock—"and fast."

Oh, who am I kidding? It's how I normally like it, even if we're not rushing. I glance up at him in the mirror. I can see his grin as well as feel it on my shoulder. Though his head doesn't move, his eyes flick up and meet my own. They burn black and green—with knowledge, with triumphant and need.

Keeping his gaze trained on mine, he whispers, "You got it, baby."

He eases a finger in, and I almost want to yell that that isn't what I meant and he knows it, but he pumps once, then adds another finger. He watches my face, and I watch his. Our expressions don't change. Our mouths are parted, jaws locked forward, but my eyes are narrowed while that smirk is still on his delectable face.

He adds a third finger, my eyes widening before the lids grow heavy as he stretches me slowly, carefully. Twisting his hand, he curls his fingers inside before drawing them out and driving back in. His thumb flicks up. His pinky slides back toward the forbidden crease.

My head drops forward, and I gasp—I _am_ gasping, grinding and squeezing, with my hands, my whole damn body. His knees bend between mine and widen my legs further apart, making me drop lower. His arm across chest hauls me against him tighter, and his hips tilt up, adding more pressure and friction with every jutting, rotating snap. His thumb circles. His fingers pump faster, harder, and his pinky grazes with each movement.

I mutter a curse. One of my hands goes up to grip his forearm, my other moving to clutch his hip. I can hear, feel, his panting in my ear, mingling and countering with own. I look up into the mirror, wanting a glimpse of his face.

His brows are furrowed in concentration. His bottom lip is trapped between his teeth, but his eyes are taking in my body, what he's doing to me, and I can't help but look. My body is flush, more so than from my hot shower. My breasts, feeling heavy, swell beneath his arm with every heaving breath, and my nipples are taut, darker and rosy.

My gaze drops lower, in slight discomfort and embarrassment at the slight self-voyeurism but also out of curious need. But I can't see because of the counter and the condensing fog. Still, I can well imagine how his hand looks covering me, fingers appearing and then disappearing.

My insides begin to quiver with my legs, though my grip on his fingers, and on his arm and hip, tightens, my breathing speeding up as heat travels down the front of me.

But then he pulls his hand out, my mouth dropping open as I gasp and stare, wide-eyed and surprised, at him in the mirror. My hands fly to counter to steady myself as he backs away a little and fumbles one-handed with his shorts. Before outrage replaces shock, I hear his shorts drop and fling across the tile, along with my towel, and he rips his shirt over his head.

Pulling my hips back with restraining hands, he shoves my feet apart even more with one of his own. Breathing heavy, I watch his face as he focuses where he's sliding the top of his length between my legs, the hair on his muscular thighs teasing the back of my own smooth ones, his fingers rolling my hips as well. He looks hungry, intent, and out of control.

My eyes clench shut as the blunt tip of him eases into me, my body sensitive and swollen, craving this harder, better, smoother part of him.

As always when we start out in this position, the sensation of him beginning to fill me is overwhelming, almost painful, but an ache in the most delicious, satisfying way. And he's none too gentle as he realizes he's positioned at the perfect angle and sheathes hard, forcing my body to rock forward and my hands to press atop the counter with my elbows locked.

He thrusts slow but hard, almost pulling out completely before ramming back into me. My body's shaking, my breasts are bouncing, and the slapping of flesh echo in the bathroom. I bit my lip to stifle my moans, but it's no use. The deep guttural noise resonates in my chest, in my throat, and adds to the cacophony, along with his groans and the indecipherable muttering from his lips.

His speed quickens, and he adds a circling tilt with each thrust. My mouth, open in a silent moan—scream, I don't know—can't seem to drag in enough air as the pressure in my belly condenses and contracts, building. My hands smack against the counter once, twice, because I don't know how much more I can take, and I'm … almost … _there_.

I arch my back, trying elongate my body yet pull him in deeper as my ass forcefully meets his hips, the tops of his thighs. I move my hand between my legs, rubbing and feeling where we're joined as I open my eyes and glance up. Edward's head is thrown back, his mouth exquisitely slack. The image, the burning in my chest, the quaking, pounding, throbbing sensations are too much. I'm lightheaded and mindless for a moment as I stiffen and just _hold on_.

As sensation ebbs and my body goes limp, I try to catch my breath. Edward embraces me from behind, his chest covering my back, his hard breaths ruffling my hair.

I reach up and hug his arms. "Did you go?"

His chest rumbles, making my body shake, though I'm still trembling a little.

"Yes. I went a while before you did, but I didn't want to stop."

I laugh, making him shake now as we stay in our weird, upright, spooning fetal position. Feeling lighter than I have in days, I squeeze his arms into me tighter. _These are moments I live for._

Then a knock comes at the door, followed by a little voice.

"Mom?" My gaze flies to the door, which is, thankfully, locked. "Have you seen Dad?"

Edward doesn't release me; he merely laughs in silence, our bodies shaking. Realizing he won't speak or let me go, I sigh. "No, honey. Maybe … he's going potty downstairs?"

More shaking, and I elbow him.

"He wasn't down there." Jacob sounds lost and forlorn. It's so unlike him that Edward and I look at each other in the mirror. He withdraws slowly, wincing as he does, and I give a small shudder. He grabs a bunch of tissues, giving half to me; all he receives is a glare.

Holding the tissues between my thighs, I ask, "What's the matter, honey?"

"Optimumus. His arm's stuck, and Uncle J can't fix it. Only Dad."

Edward, already half dressed, grins and beats once on his puffed-out chest. I roll my eyes and grab my towel to dry my hair; there's no time to blow dry it.

"We'l—_I'll_ be down in a second, and we'll find him." I give Edward a pointed glance. "Or he'll find you."

"Okay." Now Jacob sounds petulant.

As we listen to his retreating steps, Edward kisses me for the first time since entering the bathroom. It's quick, no more than a brush of his lips, followed with a nudge of his nose, but it's all I need.

"Don't wear makeup. I like you better without it."

Warm fuzzies bloom in my chest. A tiny smile tugs at my lips. Then I shake my head and scoff. "You already got laid."

"_You_ got laid." He gives me a lascivious grin, and my smack misses him as he ducks back. Turning on his heel, he strolls to the door and opens it, singing _"I Just Had Sex."_

"Don't you _dare_ tell your family!"

He laughs, and so do I. I already know sex will come up when the kids aren't near, and somehow, Edward will slip a thing or two about nooners. As I finish getting ready, only putting on mascara and lip gloss, my semi-dried hair up in a sloppy bun, I sport my own grin. After dressing and heading downstairs, I'll see our large family, both sides, hugging and laughing as the sun moves across the sky and the star-spangled banner of night unfurls, another day ending, only to begin again. And when I see the pictures developed a week later, I'll think a thought I had when each was taken.

_These are the moments I live for._

* * *

**_I'll let you decide what's Soupy-real and what's fiction. *grins and blushes* Though, for once, I can say ... the majority of it is real and actually mine.  
_**


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